A Waltz
by DaughterOfStarlight
Summary: "Whoever taught you to dance so well?" "You did." After an Algerian jewel heist in Paris turns positively dull, Holmes takes it upon himself to teach Watson how to waltz. Inspired by Game of Shadows, some spoilers. Light but deliberate S/W.
1. Chapter One

**Alright, little lovelies, me and my best mate went to go see Game of Shadows on Saturday and it was fan-flipping-tastic. The costumes were lush, the sets pristine, the dialogue sharp as a double-edged knife…and the amount of homoerotic subtext, as usual, enough to choke on. Twas a delightful evening. **

** There is, however, one scene that stayed with me especially, in which Holmes details his plans to Watson as he prepares to go face Moriarty near a very cold waterfall in Geneva (Yes, that one.) They also happen to be **_**waltzing**_** during this conversation, and when Holmes asks Watson who taught him how to dance so well, he rakishly replies, "You did."**

** Obviously the fic had to be written. I regret nothing. **

** And remember, every time you don't review, Gladstone drops dead. Help save the poor dear, will you?**

Holmes was laughing. No, not laughing; giggling in a gleeful, shameless way. He sat within the lush surroundings of his Parisian hotel, muddied boots up on a Napoleonic table, wine glass pressed to his forehead as he chortled away. Watson stood leaning up against said table, scowling and wondering how much extra the maids were going to charge for Holmes's carelessness.

"It's not funny, Holmes!"

"Oh, but it is, old boy!" The detective laughed, swallowing the last of his giggled with the remainder of his wine. "I daresay it's downright hilarious."

It was the summer of 1890. Holmes's obsession with the enigma of Moriarty had not yet begun, but he had been led to the French city by a trail that, in retrospect, would stink of the villain. He and his faithful comrade had tailed a gang of Algerian jewel smugglers to the Louvre, spared the life of a visiting English dignitary, and damned near saved all of France. Now they waited patiently from their vantage point on the third story of one of Paris's most high-end hotels for the ringleader of the smugglers to appear from the tavern across the street so they could apprehend him, dodge the press, and get back to 221B before the week was out. It had been a thrilling adventure, but at the moment the only worries in Holmes's eccentric mind were the flaccidity of the wine, if his smuggler was going to cause any more delay in that awful little tavern, and the fact that his comrade, John Watson, could not dance.

"Well you have to admit it's at least ironic," Holmes persisted, running calloused fingers through his wild hair. "A man such as yourself, world-traveled and fully versed in the world, who has never leaned to dance? Whatever did you do at those army balls?"

"Have you ever been to a veteran's ball, Holmes? There's not so much dancing as there is-"

"Witty conversation and well-meant verbal jabs?"

"Getting drunk off your arse and starting fights. Your kind of party, actually."

Holmes grinned demonically at his partner, batting his eyes in a deceptively angelic way. "Plenty of gambling then, I presume? Whatever did you do without me there to hold your purse?"

Watson snapped Holmes briskly in the shoulder with his cane, prompting a curse in God knows what language from the detective and a sudden loss of grip on his wine glass. Watson caught before it hit the floor.

"You know what? Just forget I brought it up. I know better than to-"

Holmes waved his protestation away. "Oh please! We're flat mates man, we knew the worst about each other by the time our first week together had passed."

"The worst?' Watson asked with a smirk, pouring a splash of wine into the glass and inhaling the aroma. "Here I was thinking you were the gift that kept on giving."

Holmes ignoring the thinly veiled allusion to his various self-destructive habits. "I don't judge you. I just find it curious that you plan on attending your own wedding knowing that you won't have the foggiest idea of how to dance with you wife."

"Oh, I've got a…foggy idea. I would ask Mary to teach me, it's just…Well, it's an embarrassing thing to request! People assume you know these things by now! And asking another woman is out of the question, if Mary found out-"

"I can teach you."

"-She'd get the wrong idea entirely-"

"My dear Watson, I just said that I would gladly teach you."

Watson froze, glass half raised to his lips, and stood there for a moment in shock. Holmes watched him with a nonchalant expression, fingers steepled patiently. In the painful silence, Watson threw the entirety of his wine down his throat and delicately set the glass upside-down on the table. Then he leaned heavily on his cane and examined his friend.

"You're joking."

Holmes's eyes widening in mock horror. "Never."

Watson ran his tongue over dry lips, gathering his thoughts. "And by teach you mean draw me an instructional map or-?"

"Of course not, don't be silly. I shall teach you through doing, in the way of the sages. Most effective."

Watson laughed to hide the thing vein of panic worming through his stomach. "And what shall the maid think when she walks in to find two men waltzing together?"

"I'm sure she'll find it tragically bohemian and charming. This is Paris, man, you see worse on the streets of Montmartre."

Watson was about to protest that he wasn't feeling quite _that_ bohemian, but Holmes's had already grabbed his hand and was beginning to lead him into the center of the room. Watson protesting, already flustered.

"Holmes please! This is just your sort of madness!"

The detective ignoring him, snatching away his can and throwing it onto a nearby divan. Then he went to the gilded phonograph by the window, dragging the needle over the record and coaxing out the first strains of a stately waltz. He turned to his companion and smiled.

"Shall we?"

"No, we shan't. Really, it's no trouble for me to ask Mary…"

Holmes looked at him with wide, dark eyes, rimmed with the circles of many a sleepless night but hurt nonetheless. "My poor dingy bird. We have faced crime syndicates, rabid wolf-dogs, thieving statesman and Satanic lords together. We have nearly died in bombings and chemical attacks, seen the worst and best of each other, patched each other up after many a dangerous misadventure…And yet you fear something as simple as dancing?"

"With you, yes."

Holmes advanced on him, voice childish and mocking. "I shall inform your wife-to-be that you are a coward, then."

Watson took immediate and violent offense to this. "I am not a coward!"

"Splendid," Holmes said crisply, and before Watson knew what had happened, the other man had pulled him into his arms. He stood perfectly poised, back straight as a ramrod, one hand locked into Watson's own, the other resting lightly on his waist.

"Dammit, Holmes!"

"Don't think, just do."

"How can I? You're leading!"

"Well, naturally."

Watson immediately switched positions, sliding Holmes's had up to his shoulder. "It's my wedding, and my wife I'll be dancing with. Don't you think you should be teaching _me_ how to lead?"

Holmes snapped back to his to his original position with surprising speed and strength. "Doubtful, dear Watson. I can't very well have the student leading the-"

"Clinically insane?"

"Teacher, old boy. Besides, you're obviously the female in this relationship."

"Strange, misguided plea for help, you mean! And I'm not a woman!"

"Fine, we're both men."

"Stranger still, Holmes."

"Really?" The detective mused, dark brows knitting together. "It seems perfectly reasonable to me." He pulled his companion closer, all but closing the gap of space between then. Watson instinctively began to fidget. Holmes cocked an eyebrow.

"What's wrong?"

"You mean besides the fact that I can hardly breathe? You're too close, old friend."  
>"Newlyweds should hold each other in such a manner after their nuptials. I'm merely preparing you for impending reality."<p>

"Yes, Holmes, but you're not my wife."

"Correct," The detective said with a perfectly wicked smile. "Right now I'm your husband. Now stop squirming and do try and keep up."

He then began his usual rambling diatribe about the history of the waltz, it's cultural significance, and the intricacies of the dance. But for all his narration, Watson found the dance to be embarrassingly easy. It orbited around a central rhythm, the heartbeat of one-two-three, and Holmes led him about the room with surprising grace and only the infrequent chastisement. Watson found a strange sense of ease dancing with his friend, a comfort that was soon cancelled out at the curious horror of why such ease existed. He had really been around Holmes too long, the doctor reasoned. He wondered what all this meant to his strange friend, as he no sense of social propriety and his moods were unpredictable and erratic. But Holmes didn't seem to care, so the dance continued.

"Where did you learn how to dance?" Watson asked, abruptly interrupting Holmes's speculation on the waltz as a instrument of world peace.

"I beg your pardon?" Holmes asked, never missing a step.

"Where did you learn how to waltz so well?"

"Ah. Well, many a place, just snatches here and there…Society galas, Indonesian bordellos, Siberian work camps-"

"You've never been to Indonesia."

"Blast."

"Well, out with it then. Where?"  
>Holmes gave a small smile, his voice growing a bit more soft. "My mother. She took it upon herself nearly from birth to turn Mycroft and I into properly groomed society monkeys. Said she wouldn't take us into public unless we could stop, in her own words 'Acting like little heathens and put a necktie on, God save England from us.'"<p>

Watson laughed, allowing Holmes to spin him across the Turkish carpet. "I would have liked to have met your mother."

"It's not funny!"

"Oh, but it is. I can scarcely imagine you as a child, but what I can see involves small kitchen explosions and temper tantrums. You never talk about you family."

"Don't I? I talk about Mycroft."

"You've _mentioned_ Mycroft. I've never heard about you mother."

"Ah. A distantly loving woman, in her own way. Very concerned as to my future. I enjoyed spiting her, in my youth."

"Just your youth?" Watson smirked.

"Well fine then, doctor, what about _your _family?"

"You know all about my family, Holmes. I have two brothers and one sister, two for which are married, one of which is a member of the clergy. My father was a stock broker and my mother taught music to upper-class children. I grew up in Cardiff and moved to London after my discharge from the army. All in all, a very dull life story."

"No one's life is dull, old friend, Especially anyone who's come in contact with me."

"God save England."

Holmes smiled at his friend as the last noted of the waltz faded out. Suddenly Watson noticed how close the other man still was to him, but Holmes made no move to draw away. Instead he spoke with deliberate nonchalance.

"And this is usually the part in a dance where a man would make an effort to kiss his new wife."

Watson looked at his ever-so-eccentric friend, trying to find the core of meaning in his veiled words. "Is it?"

"Usually. If the woman be willing."

"The woman is usually willing."

"Then all that remains is for a man to find his courage, I suppose."

It was at the precise, electrified moment, that the door swung open to usher in two young maids. The hair of the first was tightly curled and cropped close to her head, almost boyish in it's playfulness, while the other had the tumbling locks of a duchess, braided down her back. They stopped their happy chattering at the threshold, staring at the strange scene laid out before them, and Watson immediately saw that, to the untrained eye, he had just been caught in the arms of another man. He untangled himself from Holmes in an instant, reaching for his cane and clearing his throat. The detective showed no signs of embarrassment, only smiled graciously at the pair of teenage girls.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselles_."

The girls giggled at his rakish good looks and immediately began straightening the room.

"Sorry to interrupt," Said the short-haired one in broken English, yanking the sheets from the bed and beginning to remake it with speedy efficiency.

"We're only here for the laundry," the other finished, adjusting her half-moon spectacles with a dainty gesture as she dragged the towels in a bundle towards her cleaning trolley.

"Carry on," Holmes replied. They worked quickly, chattering among themselves in hushed French as Holmes turned to Watson, smiling at the other man's distress. When the girls had left and their giggles had faded down the hallway, Holmes spoke.

' "My French isn't exactly worthy of a native, but I caught the words "charming" and "bohemian"."

"Dammit, Holmes!" Watson fumed, not sure what he was so worked up over. The detective's sharp eyes caught the minute movement over his friend's shoulder and snapped to the window. He ran to the sill and pointed out an unsavory character exciting the tavern across the street.

"Viola!" The detective exclaimed, clapping his hands together briskly and startling his companion. He yanked on a waist coat and snatched up his tinted glasses, heading for the door. "Onward into adventure, old friend. Do try and keep up."

Then Holmes was out the door and halfway down the stairs. Watson sighed heavily, stuffing his pistol down the back of his trousers and heading after his friend at a sprint.

Yes, Watson would miss this.

**I hope it was thoroughly enjoyed! Now, I must see to Gladstone, He hasn't received enough reviews to keep him conscious today.**

_**PS: If you like Supernatural, look up DjinnAndDragons and read some of her work. Great stuff. She's the aforementioned best mate.**_


	2. The Gypsy Camp An Encore

**Holy Shakespeare, animals and babies, you all went ape over this fic. Seriously, this has been the largest number of subscriptions and reviews I have received in so little a time. Of course, the demand that was made most was for a continuation, and so even though this was intended to be a oneshot, I'm more than happy to oblige. **

** Here we find our intrepid duo in the gypsies camp from Game of Shadows, compromised by circumstance and drink. Perhaps it's the surroundings or the late hour, but here they find themselves dancing once again, perhaps sharing something more than a waltz.**

** Oh, one last parting shot. There's a line of dialogue hidden below that's taken directly from a Broadway show; my current favorite. Anyone who can tell me the name of the show shall be awarded a garishly knitted scarf from Mary.**

** Please leave a review when you go. Curtain up!**

It was the spring of 1901. Holmes was hot on the trail that Moriarty had left in his wake, dragging his reluctant partner along with him to France to hunt down a rouge gypsy revolutionary. Mary had been thrown out of a moving train, deposited in a river, and safely transported to Mycroft's home. She was undoubtedly bursting at the seams for information, feisty little thing that she was, and being subjected to his brother's various eccentricities probably wasn't helping her disposition.

_Pity, _Holmes thought, nursing his hedgehog stew and watching his partner barter with the gypsies on their own land, a very foolish thing to even attempt. _She's really a very good girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament…_

He complemented their gypsy host on her atrociously inventive cooking, coming to terms with the fact that neither he or Watson were getting out of this camp any time tonight. Watson was doing his usual share of quiet blustering, going a little red in the face as he argued with the darkly beautiful woman who glared at him from her seat in the tent. After he had finally run out of protestations, Sim took pity on him and dragged him out of the tent by the hand and into the throng of gypsy partygoers outside.

"Whatever you do, don't let these gypsies make you drink," Holmes said "For God's sake don't dance. You know how you get when you dance."

Of course, he had said it with the devil's intent and cynic's sarcasm, knowing full and well what would happen when the band was struck up and wine was passed round. Outside, a Romany violin wailed out a sprightly jig.

So Holmes shimmied his shoulders a bit and finished his stew, smiling to himself. Tonight would be nothing if not interesting.

Half an hour later, the party had worked itself up to a rolling boil. Holmes had joined the festivities and was shooting whatever anyone put into his hand and dancing for a delighted crowd of gypsy children. He was attempting to teach them some sort of flamenco, it appeared. Watson was working very hard at completely obliterating any sobriety he had left while playing mahjong with an equally intoxicated fur trader. A raucous crowd looked on approvingly, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment the Englishman had brought to them, and Holmes noted that they had robbed him blind without him ever noticing. The detective also had no doubt that they would return at least half in the morning out of goodwill; they had actually taken a shine to his uppity companion.

The music suddenly shifted into a steady, rhythmic pattern, and everyone cheered and began to partner up. Apparently it was a local favorite. Watson was pulled up by a and urged into the dancing circle, and Holmes paused in his lesson to watch this with some amusement. The doctor laughed and protested them away, but he was in no state to deny himself a dance, truth be told.

Suddenly, Holmes received a sharp shove from behind as a gypsy child with long, swinging braids sent him headlong him into the dance. He slammed bodily into Watson, who, delusionaly merry with sleep deprivation and drink, swept him into an awkward, sped up waltz. The gypsy child clambered nimbly up a nearby tree to where her curly-headed friend sat, munching on a baguette. They grinned widely, giggling and chattering in their native Romany, and Holmes glared at the both of them.

"Dance with 'im, Londoner!" The one with braids cried, and Holmes rolled his eyes, unable to bite back a small smile. Then he surrendered himself fully to the dance, swinging and twirling his favorite doctor around the bonfire. Watson was a bit awkward, as always, but he followed well, strikingly blue eyes set alight by the flames and starlight. Holmes found that he couldn't stop smiling.

When they passed the tree again, the baguette-eating gypsy girl threw down a embroidered scarf to the pair, laughing as it fluttered onto Holmes's head. A passerby fastened the scarf round their right and left wrists, fastening one side of their bodies together. The music was slowing, and Holmes noticed with some amusement that all the dancers left around the bonfire were young sweethearts. They tied scarves round their wrist in a similar fashion, sinking into a slower, more intimate dance.

Watson wiggled his hand underneath the ties that bound.

"Wassat for?"

"I believe it's some sort of social ritual," Holmes replied, quite familiar with the custom, as it happened. "They call it the lover's dance."

Watson blinked groggily, some suspicion creeping through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline. "What do they mean lovers, hmm?"

"I thought the term was fairly self-explanatory, old boy," He muttered, voice suddenly so soft and moving at such a fast pace that it almost seemed embarrassed. "A pair of devoted souls who are intoxicated by the very presence of the other and can't stand to be apart for more than a moment."

"Very poetic," Watson noted, taken a bit aback.

Holmes waved it away with his free hand. "It's only the wine. You don't mind me stealing this dance, doctor?" He continued, his voice suddenly biting and intuitive. "Or does it injure your Victorian sense of propriety?"

"Oh, shut up Holmes," Watson slurred, firm with his erratic friend as ever. "We're a long way from London. Don't disturb me now, I can see the answers…Till this evening is this morning, life is fine."

"Fine," Holmes smiled, pulling his companion closer. "Quite right."

So they swayed by the light of the fire and the kiss of the moon, Watson near enough to Holmes to lay his chin on the other man's shoulder, and they danced a lovers dance, much to the delight of the gypsy girls in the trees.

After the last strains of wailing violin and slinky tambourine and faded away, the crowd cheered, and all the couples kissed, then threw their scarves into the air. Neither man noticed; they were content in the warmth of one another's arms. But Holmes' came crashing back into reality when acrorns started hitting him in the head. He looked up, and he pair of gypsy girls cackled with glee.

"Oi, Londoner! Kiss 'im! Come on, kiss 'im!"

Watson looked up, scowling petulantly at the girls. "Holmes, what are they-?"

But he was quickly cut off by the fact that Holmes had dipped his head and pressed his lips against Watson's own. They only touched for a moment, electric as it was, but it gave Holmes enough time to wriggle his wrist out of the scarf, throw it into the air, and nod towards Watson's pocket.

"They've stolen your purse, old boy. Better see to that."

Watson, stunned as he was, glanced down at his pockets, but by the time he looked up to demand an explanation for Holmes's frankly appalling behavior, the man had disappeared into the crowd. Watson spied him a few moments later dancing with a gypsy girl on the other side of the encampment, perfectly at home with all the steps memorized. An eager young thing that spoke no English took hold of Watson's hand, gave him a drink off her flask, and pulled him back into the whirling mass of dancers.

The rest of the night was a blur.

The next morning Watson woke in a swirl of heavy quilts and gypsy scarves with a splitting headache. Holmes was already up, sitting serenely cross-legged on the floor of the tent and sipping a distinguished cup of tea.

"Holmes?" Watson slurred, lifting his head a few inches off the blankets. Holmes pushed it back into a nearby rabbit pelt and sighed.

"You'll be having a hangover now, and it doesn't take a man like me to see it. Best not to talk, old friend."

Watson disobeyed of course, rolling onto his back with an agonized groan. He dimly noticed that he had somehow managed to loose a shoe and his waistcoat between the bonfire outside and his bed in Sim's tent.

"Holmes, what the hell happened last night?"

"I dragged your sleeping form into the tent and dropped you unceremoniously on Sim's floor, which she was generous enough to lend to our cause. Before that…You drank. Excessively. Gambled. Poorly. And danced…well, it was damn good entertainment, if in a pitying sort of sad way."

"Oh yeah," The blonde man murmured, dragging a hand across his stubble. Than he shot up a little too suddenly, hair sticking up at unnatural angles, eyes wide. "Holmes, we-" Then the hangover hit. "Oh God…"

The detective was at his friends side in an instant, shoving the cup of tea in his hands and cradling his head in a hand.

"Drink."

"But I-"

"Do as I say, Watson."

The man grudgingly obeyed, drinking deeply before sputtering in disgust.

"It's alcohol!"

Holmes raised a dark eyebrow, raking his free hand through his disheveled hair. "Well obviously. What do you use to cut through the morning after fog?"  
>"Holmes, let's be serious for a moment," Watson muttered, setting down the hot concoction of whiskey and God-know-what-else and sitting up a little straighter. He sighed heavily, face scrunched up in pain and embarrassment.<p>

"Last night, you and I…Well, we danced, old boy, and then you-"

Holmes was suddenly on his feet, tucking in his unsalvageably wrinkled shirt and pacing the room swiftly. "Sharpness of memory does not fail you even in your weakened state, dearest Watson, I find that trait invaluable."

"Holmes, please-"

"I was merely entertaining local custom in a foreign place," The detective continued, not missing a beat as he snapped on his suspenders and snatched up Watson's waistcoat off the floor. "To decline doing so would be rude and inhospitable, we need these people to know that we are friends-"

"But you kissed me," Watson said. Slowly, firmly. Holmes paused, fingers fumbling on the tiny buttons of the waistcoat.

"So I did. Did you find it…Objectionable?"

Watson opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and hauled himself up off the floor. He ached all over, except for his lips, which still carried some sort of phantom tingle.

"That's my waistcoat, you know."

Holmes smirked knowingly. "I thought we agreed it was too small for you. Come now." He tossed a floppy hat to the discombobulated man, snapping a festive gypsy scarf around his own neck. "Dress up nice and pretty now, darling, our gypsy friends know a man who can sneak us into Moriarty's camp."

Then he slipped out the tent flap, whistling a Romany tune. Watson smirked, a little of his hangover evaporating as he followed the other man out into the crisp morning. Oh, Holmes.

**Reviews, my lovelies?**


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